


how we made the world small

by blackkat



Series: Bleach Drabbles [9]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 05:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20109619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: The press of a hand along his spine rouses Shūhei, slow and easy with the pulse of familiar, impossibly strong magic washing around him like a tide under the full moon. With a long breath of contentment, he rolls over onto his side, peeling one eye open to squint up at the form half-hidden by the darkness above, and doesn’t need to be able to see his visitor's face to say, “Ichigo.”





	how we made the world small

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: If you're still taking prompts, and if you're in a Bleach mood, can I request an urban fantasy Ichigo/Shuuhei AU? Specifics can be left up to you, but maybe with hurt/comfort?

The apartment is dark when Shūhei staggers home in the early evening, squinting through the glare of the setting sun and trying to keep his vision from wavering. Just the proximity to _home_ is helping, though; one step over the threshold and he can feel his magic starting to trickle back, the slow drip of power rebuilding turning into a slow stream instead of a cracked dam. With a breath of relief, he shoves open the heavy, creaky old door and slips through, then shoulders it shut behind him and pauses, leaning there for a moment.

There are no lights on, and there’s no sign of his roommate, either; Renji’s battered old boots are gone, and the baseball bat he usually takes along on cases is missing as well. Shūhei stares at the space where it normally is for a moment, trying to remember if he’d heard Renji say anything about what he’s working on, but honestly he could have told Shūhei that he was running away to become a stripper and Shūhei probably wouldn’t have registered it; it’s been a long few days.

Something dark flickers in the corner of his vision, traced with red, and Shūhei sighs, putting up a hand to rub at one temple. “I know,” he says into the silence, and doesn’t look over at where Kazeshini’s face is clear in the mirror above the fireplace. Dark eyes are staring at him, intent and almost accusing, and Shūhei just barely restrains a wince. “I know, okay?”

There’s a quiet but pointed huff, and with a ripple of dark light the spirit vanishes. Shūhei knows better than to think he’s given up, though; Kazeshini has a point to make, so he’ll be back the second he thinks he can win an argument.

Right now, Shūhei is tired enough to take the reprieve, however brief. He shoves his bokken into its holder beside the door, hangs up his coat, kicks off his shoes, and staggers across the main room to where his bedroom door stands open. The bed is unmade, but Shūhei doesn’t have the ability to care right now; he collapses onto the mattress face-first with a long, pained groan, eyes already closed. The curl of magic in his chest is a relief, and it feels like slipping into a warm bath, the wash of it returning. Shūhei hadn’t quite thought that it _wouldn’t_, but—it’s been a long day.

Letting out a breath, Shūhei drags his pillow into a slightly more comfortable position, thinks vaguely that he should plug in his phone, and passes out somewhere between thought and action.

The press of a hand along his spine rouses Shūhei, slow and easy with the pulse of familiar, impossibly strong magic washing around him like a tide under the full moon. With a long breath of contentment, he rolls over onto his side, peeling one eye open to squint up at the form half-hidden by the darkness above, and doesn’t need to be able to see his visitor’s face to say, “Ichigo.”

Ichigo's eyes flicker over his face, doubtless taking in the bruises there—as it turns out, serial kidnappers don’t take kindly to being told to knock their shit off or else. “Shūhei,” he returns, frowning, and leans forward, the sharpness of his gaze something almost unnerving, even after all the time Shūhei’s had to get used to it. “Your phone is off, asshole.”

Shūhei winces. “Sorry,” he says apologetically, and offers Ichigo his best rueful smile. “I think I forgot to charge it when I got back.”

“Yeah, I figured.” At least Ichigo sounds amused, and he leans down to kiss Shūhei gently, a chaste press of lips that still manages to thread warmth right through Shūhei’s veins. He hums, and there’s a quiet snort before Ichigo pulls back, amusement in his eyes as he braces a hand on the mattress beside Shūhei’s head.

“You okay?” he asks, and the thumb of his other hand brushes across Shūhei’s cheekbone, right above one of the more spectacular bruises.

Shūhei pulls a face. “You felt that?” he asks halfheartedly, and when Ichigo raises an eyebrow at him, he sighs. Of course Ichigo felt that. There’s a reason he’s considered the genius loci of the entire city. Shūhei has certainly never doubted it. “It’s fine. I wasn’t Kazeshini for long.”

Ichigo's frowns deepens, even as he curls his hand around the nape of Shūhei’s neck. “Shūhei—” he starts, then stops. Takes a breath, and asks again, “Are you okay?”

Shūhei opens his mouth to say he is, then stops. Ichigo _knows_ how much he hates tapping into the darker side of his powers, of course, and he knows how Shūhei gets in the aftermath. Swallowing, he looks up, meeting steady, sharp brown eyes, and asks in a voice that’s so pathetic he could kick himself for it, “Can you stay for a little while?”

Ichigo rolls his eyes, even as he falls right over Shūhei and onto the other side of the bed. “Why do you think I'm here?” he asks, but there’s nothing harsh in his voice, just amusement. When Shūhei rolls over, he’s already on his side, one arm lifted, and with a sound of relief Shūhei burrows right into his chest and settles there with a relieved sigh.

“I thought you were here for Renji’s fabulous cooking,” Shūhei says without lifting his head. “And his massive repertoire of instant ramen recipes.”

Ichigo snorts, fingers threading into Shūhei’s hair. “The fact that he hasn’t died of scurvy yet is impressive,” he says dryly. “Everyone in one piece?”

“Despite the kidnappers’ best efforts,” Shūhei says with disgust, and it takes effort to keep the curl of his hands in Ichigo's shirt from turning into fists. “They’re mostly intact too, even. How was Ishida’s quest?”

“I'm never leaving the city again,” Ichigo says flatly, like he won't go running the next time one of his friends so much as implies that they need his help. When Shūhei snickers, Ichigo pinches his ribs lightly, tangling their legs, and says, “Shut up, we had to _camp_. And there was some jerk with hair that would have made Renji jealous.”

Interested, Shūhei tips a head to eye him. “You brought him back?” he asks, testing.

The curl of Ichigo's half-smirk has no right to be so attractive. “Would I bring a Quincy back to the city just to fuck with Renji?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Shūhei says dryly. “In a heartbeat. Especially if the Quincy needed help.”

Ichigo huffs. “Don’t let Bazz-B hear you imply that I helped him. he’ll burn half the city down.”

It sounds like exactly the type of stray Ichigo always picks up, and Shūhei laughs a little, settling more firmly into Ichigo's hold. Yawns, because his magic is still sliding back, hasn’t had time to return fully yet. “If you keep playing pillow until I wake up, I’ll make you breakfast,” he offers, and closes his eyes.

The gentle drag of Shūhei’s fingers in his hair is just as soothing as the pressure of his power, a warm, protective blanket to keep the nightmares at bay. “It’s insulting how easily you think I can be bribed with pancakes. Yuzu makes _fantastic_ pancakes, you know.”

Shūhei hums, unimpressed. “Yeah, but I’ll share a shower with you and show you how much I missed you,” he counters.

He can't see Ichigo's rare smile, but there's a breath of amusement against his hair, the careful brush of a hand down his spine. “I guess I can stay for that,” he allows, and Shūhei drifts off again with the tidal pull of Ichigo's magic submerging his darker instincts in a wash of comforting warmth.

In the darkness, he can't tell the difference between himself and Kazeshini, but with Ichigo right beside him, he finds that he cares far less than normal.


End file.
